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bloodyanimalSpike hated the beach.
He hated the sand. The bloody ocean. Well, truth be told, he hated a lot of things, as of late. It wasn't particularly healthy, he knew, but he was a bloody vampire. He was supposed to skulk about in the dark, thinking about death and mayhem. Happiness, stability, a home-- those were all things left better to humanity, of which he hadn't truly been a part of for quite some time.
While he hated being maudlin, and he certainly wasn't a brooding sod like Angelus, he knew that he hadn't been himself in a while. First there was Andrea and William, and now Buffy, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't seem to find his footing again.
So, he was going through the motions, for lack of anything better, patrolling when he could, going to work, keeping track of the few people in Darrow he gave a damn about, whose numbers were slowly dwindling.
That night, he'd found himself on the boardwalk, chasing a pair of ghouls down to the water's edge, cursing the whole bloody way.
"Alright, you bastards," he muttered, drawing out his machete, and catching one of the creatures by the back of its tattered shirt. Unfortunately, the rotted garment tore, a chunk of moldering skin coming off with it. "Oh, wonderful," he snarled, chucking the glob of offending meat and fabric onto the sand, swinging his machete wildly but with enough skill to lop of the head of the nearest monster.
It landed in the sand and rolled, bouncing through the bubbling tide.
He hated the sand. The bloody ocean. Well, truth be told, he hated a lot of things, as of late. It wasn't particularly healthy, he knew, but he was a bloody vampire. He was supposed to skulk about in the dark, thinking about death and mayhem. Happiness, stability, a home-- those were all things left better to humanity, of which he hadn't truly been a part of for quite some time.
While he hated being maudlin, and he certainly wasn't a brooding sod like Angelus, he knew that he hadn't been himself in a while. First there was Andrea and William, and now Buffy, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't seem to find his footing again.
So, he was going through the motions, for lack of anything better, patrolling when he could, going to work, keeping track of the few people in Darrow he gave a damn about, whose numbers were slowly dwindling.
That night, he'd found himself on the boardwalk, chasing a pair of ghouls down to the water's edge, cursing the whole bloody way.
"Alright, you bastards," he muttered, drawing out his machete, and catching one of the creatures by the back of its tattered shirt. Unfortunately, the rotted garment tore, a chunk of moldering skin coming off with it. "Oh, wonderful," he snarled, chucking the glob of offending meat and fabric onto the sand, swinging his machete wildly but with enough skill to lop of the head of the nearest monster.
It landed in the sand and rolled, bouncing through the bubbling tide.
